When the Singing Stops

by Di Morrissey

  Madison paid. But before she could collect the books, a stamp had to be glued to the docket, initialled by the cashier and handed back with the change. Madison took the docket back to the girl behind the counter. The docket was then checked before the books were handed over. Madison smiled incredulously as the sales ritual concluded. ‘Do you have full employment in this country?’ she asked, trying to keep a straight face. The sales assistant just looked at her uncomprehendingly.

  Madison stepped out into the searing sunlight and reached for her sunglasses. Across the street a big open-air market was bustling with sellers who squatted before heaps of fruit and vegetables. Leaning wooden stalls were hung with cheap brightly coloured household wares like brooms and plastic bowls. Madi’s eye was caught by a hammock strung across the front of a stall.

  ‘What’s the market called?’ she asked the driver who materialised beside her.

  ‘Dat’s Bourda Markets. Good for food tings. Yo want to go and look?’

  It suddenly occurred to Madison that she hadn’t seen a taxi meter in the cab. ‘How’s my bill running with you? Is this going to cost me a fortune?’

  He smiled easily. ‘No, I make a round trip, fair price. Don’ worry yo’self. Come, I’d better walk with yo in there. Watch yo bag.’

  ‘I was looking at those hammocks.’

  ‘Ah yes, from Brazil. Yo’ll need a hammock if yo’re going to de interior. Tie ’im between trees. But dere’s a better place to buy dem. I can take yo to de Amerindian shop.’

  ‘As I’m here, maybe I could walk around for a few minutes.’ She liked the idea of having a tall burly man in tow as they walked through the narrow lanes formed by the vendors. ‘Look, my name is Madison Wright. Maybe we should introduce ourselves.’

  He smiled widely and offered his hand. ‘Dat real nice, Miz Wright. I be Lester Styles.’

  They turned into another lane crowded with baskets of food. But there was not a huge variety of fruit and vegetables. ‘What are those?’ She pointed to a lump of pale brown legumes spread on a grass mat.

  ‘Cassava. De bread of de Amerindians.’ Lester explained how cassava was starchy and the staple food of the tribes. There were no potatoes, just edoes and yams and breadfruit, and a large pale fruit called a plantain that looked like a banana. ‘Yo fry or boil dem to eat. Some people mash dese ones. De Amerindians make many tings with de cassava, strain de juice for a drink, very strong, and make flour or eat like potato.’

  Madison picked up a bunch of long green snake beans. ‘I like the look of these. What’s the most common dish people eat here?’

  ‘Oh, souse, pepperpot, black pudding and pepper sauce on ever’ting.’ He picked up a handful of red chillies. ‘Dese make pepper sauce. Very hot.’

  ‘What else goes into pepperpot and souse other than chillies?’

  Lester liked the idea of being a tour guide and warmed to the task with smiling enthusiasm as they headed back towards the taxi. ‘Pig face, ears, pigs’ feet, cassareep, cow heel. Very strong smell. Cassareep comes from cassava, pepperpot is Amerindian dish.’

  Madison grimaced. ‘It doesn’t sound very appetising to me.’

  ‘Oh, and yo must eat labba and drink de black water,’ Lester added encouragingly. ‘If yo do dat, yo den come back to Guyana.’

  ‘What is it? Some magic potion?’

  ‘Labba is about the size of a small dog, like a big rat. Black water is creek water. We call it black because it’s dark, from the minerals and roots. But it’s clear, it’s sweet, good for drinking.’

  Madison looked dubious. ‘Don’t know that I’m into eating rats. But clearly I have a lot to learn about this country.’

  When they reached the taxi, Lester opened the door and Madi slid into the back. ‘Yo want to learn about Guyana, heh?’ He spoke seriously and gave her an earnest look.

  Madison looked at this man she’d met only two hours earlier and who now seemed like an old friend. ‘Yes, I think I do.’

  ‘Okay, we go to de library,’ he announced. ‘Don’ worry, won’t take long.’

  The taxi swung around a corner and Madison gasped as she stared out the window. ‘Wow, look at that!’

  ‘What, where?’

  ‘There! Those flowers, the waterlilies in the canal!’

  A broad canal in the middle of the street divided the traffic. It was choked with massed pink flowers, their proud fat heads on long stems bobbing above the flat sea of green leaves that smothered the surface of the rank water.

  ‘Dey be lotus.’ Lester swerved into the side of the road and stopped.

  ‘Do the lotus have a perfume?’

  ‘Don’ know. We see. I show yo someting.’ Heedless of the passing traffic he leapt out of the car and skipped to the edge of the sloping verge, followed by Madison. Lester leaned over to reach for a flower, slithered and slipped a little and squelched into black mud that covered his gym shoes.

  ‘Ooh, be careful.’ Madison kicked off her sandals. ‘Wait, I’ll help you.’ She inched along and went to Lester who was ankle deep. She held out her hand. ‘Are you stuck?’

  ‘A bit. I was trying to get dat bud, see de green pod.’ She held his arm as he reached far out and grabbed the cup-shaped pod with its seeds sewn in slit green sacks. Cars honked but they ignored them. ‘Look in here, de seed . . .’ He squeezed a plump seed from its hole and peeled away the outer layer to reveal a white kernel which he popped into his mouth. He took another. ‘Here, yo try.’

  Madison bit into the seed. ‘It tastes like a nut, a cashew, sort of. Very nice. Thank you so much. Very kind of you to go to so much trouble for me.’

  Back behind the wheel Lester took off his muddy shoes and socks and wiped his feet with a rag from under the seat. Madison sat in the back picking the seeds from the lotus pod. ‘They are stunning. Those flowers are as big as soup bowls.’

  ‘Wait til dey dry, den try dem.’ He put on his shoes minus the muddy socks.

  The library was a beautiful white colonial building. They went to a reception desk where a girl checker took their bags and gave them a numbered receipt. ‘Keep yo money with yo,’ whispered Lester.

  They walked up a sweeping staircase to the upper level where shelves of books were protected by small mesh barriers. One of the librarians in a drab mud-coloured uniform approached them. ‘What yo interested in, politics, animals, history?’ she asked conversationally.

  ‘What do you have on travel in Guyana, like to the interior?’

  The girl looked blank. ‘Yo don’ know de titles of de books?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Man, how I know what to get when I don’ have no names?’ Her head rocked from side to side in exasperation.

  ‘Can I just look along the shelves?’ asked Madison, stepping through the small opening in the mesh towards the shelves of books. She had to step around a bucket, one of many scattered along the aisle between the books. Glancing upwards Madison saw damp patches on the sagging ceiling.

  But the lethargic girl suddenly sprang into action, barring her way. ‘No public in here.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Rule. I get de books, dat de rule. Wot yo want?’

  ‘I don’t know! I just want to look and see what looks interesting.’

  ‘No titles, no books. Dat’s de rule.’

  Madison looked to Lester in desperation. He pointed at a book. ‘Dere, dat blue one. Dat’s one. Give us dat.’

  ‘Dat blue one, dere on de shelf?’

  ‘Yeah man. Dat one, de blue one up dere.’ Lester spoke as she did, pointing at a book. He gave Madison a wink as the girl reached for it. Flipping through pages, Lester stopped and made an extravagant reaction. ‘Yeh, man dis be de one. Hey, yo photocopy, okay?’

  With the pages carefully memorised, the girl disappeared into a back section to photocopy. ‘Okay, yo go look.’ Lester propelled Madison into the musty rows of books. ‘See what yo can find.’

  This seemed like madness but she swiftly glanced up and down the racks and was s
oon immersed in a collection of colonial and pre-Independence books on Guyana. In the travel section there was little and what there was seemed very dated. Obviously no one in recent times had bothered to write about the delights or otherwise of travel in Guyana. She noted that most of the contemporary books were political, extolling the virtues of former socialist leader Forbes Burnham’s government, and had been published by his government.

  She was about to turn away when a title caught her eye. On the Diamond Trail In British Guiana by Gwen Richardson. It was an old volume and Madi blew a small cloud of dust from it before opening the copyright page. She saw that it was published by Methuen of London in 1925. She turned to the mildew-spotted title page to reveal a grainy black-and-white photograph of a young woman that made her gasp lightly in amusement and, she realised at once, admiration. It was clearly a studio photograph taken in the staged style of that period, but there was something more about the image that captured Madison’s complete attention.

  The young woman was handsomely attractive but it was her dress that made the picture exceptional—a long tweedy but stylish black skirt, high boots, a pocketed blouse, a bush hat set at a slightly rakish angle, a scarf at the throat and a Colt .45 held confidently in her hand.

  ‘Whacko, Gwen!’ exclaimed Madison softly and Lester stepped forward to look over her shoulder.

  ‘Oh man, dat some lady dat one,’ he said with exaggerated melodic intonation that made Madison smile. ‘She a real colonial lady to be sure.’

  ‘Colonial lady?’ queried Madison.

  ‘Oh yes. Guyana people know colonial people real well,’ he laughed. Madison let the remark pass but she knew there was a sub-text to it she didn’t understand. ‘Yo want to be like dis lady?’ he asked smiling.

  Madison felt a little annoyed at the question, not so much that it implied something slightly absurd, but because Lester had seemingly read her thoughts. Yes, she actually did have an instant liking for the woman, or at least for the bold individualism and sense of adventure the image conveyed. ‘Why not?’ she asked looking him in the eye and closing the book more firmly than she had intended.

  ‘Ohhh,’ he crooned and raised both hands in front of his face in mock defence. ‘If yo really want to go into de jungle like dis lady, den yo do it. Dat way yo will really get to know dis country. Maybe still find something colonial dere,’ he added, then quickly changed the subject. ‘Yo want to borrow dis book?’

  ‘Yes. Can I become a member of the library?’

  ‘No worries. I’m a member. Yo can use my card.’

  They walked down towards a desk where a handful of people queued to record their borrowings. ‘You’re a surprising man, Lester.’ She tried to imagine a Sydney taxi driver lending her his library card.

  ‘Ah well. I’m one of de lucky ones. Got some education, but got de gold bug too. Driving, I can take up and put down any time I like. Maybe one day I’ll get what yo First World people have lots of—ambition.’ He paused and smiled. ‘But maybe not. Ambition is not a big ting in Guyana.’ Madison had already reached that conclusion.

  The library clerk studied the book and the card carefully and looked from Madi to Lester. She opened the book to put in the date stamp but then paused and turned to the page with the picture of the author. She examined it and grinned, then looked at Madison. ‘Hey, yo going after diamonds too?’

  Madison forced herself to remain even tempered. ‘Who knows? It might be fun.’

  Finally the date stamp was impressed on the slip of paper attached to the cover, recording the first borrowing of the book for thirty years.

  As they reached the car Lester opened the door. ‘If yo do go after diamonds, be sure to take yo frog with yo.’

  Madison was slightly surprised to see that he was quite serious and she was about to question him when he went on. ‘How about taking a look at a real local hammock. Dey be ideal for de diamond trail.’ He grinned and gave a deprecating shrug to take the bite out of the quip. ‘At de same time yo can meet some more of de locals. Amerindians. Dey spend enough time in dem, so dey should know how to make dem.’ He laughed again. ‘Hammock be an Arawak tribe word. Dey spun de cotton which was grown by de Arecunas and de Macushis made de hammocks. Now it be more a town business,’ he added.

  ‘Will it take long? How far is it? Not out of town I hope?’

  ‘No. I’ll take yo to the Amerindian hostel where de people stay in Georgetown. Still have yo back in time for lunch.’ He raised both hands in a gesture of openness. ‘Trust me.’

  Madison couldn’t help but smile and agree. ‘Okay. Lead on. You haven’t led me astray yet.’

  They left the main streets and began travelling down narrow potholed and garbage-littered back streets. The smell of poverty drifted into the car, which was emitting a significant number of loud rattles despite Lester’s efforts to avoid the worst of the potholes. Madison felt obliged to raise her voice, ‘What exactly is an Amerindian?’ she shouted over the rattles.

  ‘Ah, I give yo another lesson, dis one about where de natives come from. I was taught at school dat de Indians came from Asia to America over de Bering Strait which was den a sort of bridge between de two continents.’

  ‘Well that must be going back some time.’

  ‘Many tousands of years . . . and dey kept moving south till dey reached South America. Over de centuries Amerindian civilisations sprang up all over . . . de Aztec and Pueblo in North America, de Maya in Central America and de Inca and Chibcha in South America. Dere descendants make up de nine tribes in Guyana today.’ He gave her a cheeky grin. ‘Someone yo might know of befriended de Amerindians when he was here looking for de gold of El Dorado.’

  ‘I know. Sir Walter Raleigh.’

  ‘Top o’ de class. He one smart man. He treat de Indians good and dey help him. De English and de Dutch get dem on dere side and protect dem and in return de natives hunt down de runaway slaves. Lot of Negroes still don’ like de Amerindians because of dat.’

  ‘How do you feel about them?’ asked Madison bluntly, since he was being so open.

  ‘I have good friends up de river. In de villages dey lead de life like dey always have, dat’s okay. But now tings be changing in some places and it’s hard fo dem. Dey should have same tings as everybody else, but de government mess tings up—fo everybody. But I spend time with dem and I can see de tribes getting radical. Soon dey make a voice in dis country and not stay quiet in de forest.’

  Lester spoke with some heat. ‘All we Guyanese want is fairness fo everyone. It’s not right people with de power make corruption and take money. De poor people see dis and cheat and teef to get money to get a better life or get out. Who goin’ t’make dis country strong, eh? Amerindian people no can go and live happy in Miami like some of us. Dey only want here.’

  ‘It’s a problem all over the world I think, Lester,’ said Madi quietly. ‘But what can we do about it?’

  ‘Sometimes, some of us have to find a way to help. No good everyone wait fo someone else t’fix tings up.’

  They pulled into the yard of a simple rambling double-storeyed building. A broken truck was sunk in weeds and a tethered goat lay in the shade of a tree. A small shop flanked the entrance to the Amerindian hostel and a shy dark-eyed young girl peeped from the doorway.

  ‘Who stays here?’

  ‘Children be chosen from various villages and brought down to experience de city and get a better education. Dey stay for a year. Den go back to de village.’

  ‘Don’t they find it hard after what they’ve seen in Georgetown?’

  ‘I’ve got Amerindian friends whose children be homesick. Some go back early. But dey all go back eventually taking experiences dat can help de village. Most of dem don’t like de city. Some come down to stay ‘cause dey sick. Dey come for treatment in de hospital and with specialist doctors. Malaria, typhoid are big sickness dat send dem down here. Most times dey look after demselves. Forest medicine. Take a long time to get specialist doctor from Georgetown up to de i
nterior. Another reason, de Amerindians getting organised.’ He nodded towards the upper floor. ‘De big chief is up dere.’

  ‘Organised, you mean politically?’

  ‘Yeah. Dey be a gentle sweet people. Dey mind dere own business, keep to demselves. But now, big business, logging, de mines, de trouble in de rivers, no good fo dem.’

  ‘What do you mean trouble in the rivers?’

  ‘Sick fish. Poison in de water, trees cut down, big diggings round de hunting grounds. Dere old life gone.’

  ‘Is the environment a big issue here?’

  Lester continued in his thick patois. ‘Man, we all know dat word. De calypso boys sing ’bout dat, oh my yes. We know ’bout dat en-vi-ro-ment right enough.’

  They walked into the small shop. It was colourful and cluttered, filled with baskets, mats, decorations, fish traps, ornaments, mostly made from woven grasses and wood. Lester watched Madison admire the strong intricate floor mats. ‘Dey made from tibisiri, taken from de heart of de Eta palm. Wear a long time.’

  Strung around one wall was a selection of string hammocks. ‘Dese be de best ones, very soft, very strong. Can get wet, won’t rot quick,’ said Lester. ‘See even bebbe ones.’ He held out a mini baby hammock.

  ‘Oh, that is adorable.’

  ‘Yo got babies?’ asked Lester.

  ‘No.’

  He lifted down a pale string hammock. ‘Here, dis one be good for yo. Yo tie it up like dis.’ He showed her how to knot the strong twine ropes around a pole. He gave a tug and the knot slid into place, holding firm. ‘Yo sleep deep in dis one, de sides come up and almost cover yo. Keep out bad boys.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Insects. Yo take a mosquito net and waterproof sheet and yo be set to sleep in the jungle.’

  The memory of the picture of Gwen with her gun and her bush outfit came to Madison’s mind. ‘Right, I’ll take it.’

  They left the shop and walked across the compound as two young boys strolled past them, swinging schoolbags, speaking a language Madison had never heard. They exchanged shy smiles and disappeared into the building.